Club Penguin Tales
by Sorge
Summary: An ever-expanding collection of short stories from across the island. From secret agents to pizza chefs, these are the essential tales of Club Penguin!
1. Editor's Note

_From the Editor's Desk:_

What a year it's been! So much fun and festivity in frozen Club Penguin! So many things to do and see, that I don't doubt I could fill pages with tales of my own. Tobogganing on the slopes, surfing at the cove, popcorn at the stage, fireworks on a summer night and the crisp autumn air laced with the smell of cotton candy. So many new memories made, more than could ever be written down.

You can imagine that we of the Club Penguin Times hear more than our fair share of good stories, some verifiable, some blatantly fictitious: but in all good stories, there may be found a kernel of the truth. Here, for the first time in print, is a compilation of the best stories we've heard. We make no guarantee of the veracity of these tales, though great efforts were made to track down the original source and to verify as many details as possible. Thus we must insist that these ungrounded tales be understood for what they are and that no assumption must be made regarding them.

The joy of living is in the memories we make, bad and good, and it is not the intent of this publication to differentiate between the two. You must make that decision for yourself, dear reader. We can only make the material available; you must do the rest. This curation is an ongoing project and as more tales are exhumed from the archive and edited for brevity, they shall be added. So here's to six years of Club Penguin memories, in the hope of many happy returns!

- J. S.

_Editor, CP Times_


	2. Thanks for the Memories: Rory's Tale

**Thanks for the Memories - Rory's Tale**

* * *

The sun was setting over the pines and the hills like a sea of liquid gold, clear as glass on the snow. A cool wind blew. Rory sipped at his tea.

The coffee shop was dim and quiet, closed for the day and empty of penguins. Only the soft clatter of dishes in the kitchen told him he wasn't alone. The smell of fresh sawdust was in the air and all his tools lay neatly bundled up in a work blanket. His yellow plastic construction helmet lay on the table beside him. He'd come to change a light bulb, and while he was at it, decided just to strip and replace the wiring too.

He didn't mind. It was the most interesting job he'd done in quite a while and he was glad to see that his hands still remembered their work. Now that he was the boss of his own construction company, he rarely got the chance to get hands-on with a project anymore. But he still remembered.

The bell above the door tinkled, and he glanced up from his mug, spying a familiar face in the pastry counter's reflection. It was Gary the gadget guy, an old friend. They were about the same age and he'd known the other penguin since the days of the PSA.

"Hey, Gary! How are you?" he called.

"Hello, Rory! I'm getting by just fine, thank you."

"Pull up a chair?" Rory asked hopefully, sliding a stool out with his foot.

"Just a moment. I have to swipe a bag of this most excellent brew," Gary said, selecting for himself a bag of dark-roast coffee grounds from under the counter. "This coffee is truly outstanding."

"They just let you come in here and take it?" Rory asked bemusedly.

"We have an understanding," Gary said offhandedly, hinting that there might be more to the story. "I have a moment. Want to talk?"

"Sure. Have a seat," Rory offered. "Tea?"

"Oh, no thank you. I've brought my own," Gary said, producing a thermos of rich-smelling espresso, very nearly overpowering the residual odor of coffee in the café.

Rory wrinkled his nose, returning to his cup of green.

"I thought you quit. All that caffeine ain't healthy, you know. You've got to take it easy with a nice cup of tea every now and then—like me."

"I need it to keep me sane. I only quit after I found out that Rookie was running hot water through the same grounds every day for a week to save time."

"What, for real? That's pretty good, Gary," Rory chuckled. "But you should see my guys try to make coffee. They seem to think it's done when you can stand a spoon in it. Poured myself a cup the other day and spent the whole night on the toilet. Now I drink tea."

"Well, good for you," Gary said, hiding his smile. "You'll probably live longer. How's work these days?"

"Can't complain," Rory sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Business has been crazy with all of the remodelling they've been doing around town. I've had to hire a bunch of temporaries."

"You've done good work, Rory. This place has never looked better," Gary said, looking around the darkened café.

"Thanks, I'll pass it along." He finished his cup of tea and glanced at his reflection in the brand-new glass pane. It was already a little smudged. "How about you? Invented anything neat lately?"

"Not really," Gary admitted. "A couple of things for myself just to stay entertained, but I don't get much time to mess around in the workshop anymore. I haven't had much fun since the ghost-hunting expedition. We're just too busy with paperwork nowadays."

"I know the feeling" Rory said, feeling a twinge of melancholy. "I mostly just answer the phone and file paychecks from my office now. I really miss going out just to build stuff."

Gary nodded in sympathy.

"That's the mark of success, Rory. There are some days that I'd like nothing more than the workshop to myself and a pile of scrap metal to tinker with, but sometimes you've just got to let it go."

"Yep. It's probably for the best that you and I aren't in the business anymore," Rory piped up as a sudden memory struck him. "Sometimes things get a little crazy, like the time the island flooded and we ended up just lifting the whole bloody thing straight out of the water and called it a party. Probably could have fixed that with a sump, come to thing of it."

"Ah, yes, the Island Lifter 3000! I meant to ask you—wherever did you find such a big balloon?"

"Trade secret," Rory laughed. "But out of curiosity, why did you build a machine like that in the first place?"

"Good question," Gary said, grinning. "I was just thinking about how depressing rainy days are one day, so I resolved to do something about it. My first idea was going to be this great big umbrella to go over the island, but then Rookie looks up at the sky and says "I bet there's no rain above the clouds, it's probably always sunny up there!" and the rest was just destined to be."

Both penguins exploded into laughter. Time passed and the tea went cold, but neither penguin noticed. They made idle chat for over an hour, happily reminiscing on their past adventures. It finally grew dark and the streetlights clicked on, bringing an end to their conversation.

"Well," Gary said finally, "I think I should be going."

"Same here," Rory agreed, conscious of the time. "Hey, thanks for stopping by. It was really nice talking to you."

"No worries. We should do this again sometime."

"Definitely," Rory agreed, taking the other penguin's flipper and shaking it firmly. "You know, once you get the HQ fixed up and the demand for construction quiets down, maybe we could get away or something. I've got a whole garage full of junk that you might like to take a look at. I bet we could build something pretty cool."

"I'd like that," Gary agreed. "Let's do that soon."

"Take care, Gary."

"And you, Rory."

The door tinkled again, and Gary was gone, trudging into the darkness until even his white lab coat was lost in the snow. Rory remained, leaning back in his seat and idly swirling the tea leaves in his mug. Maybe he'd come to the coffee shop again tomorrow. The ceiling could use a lick of paint, and the paperwork could wait. He was okay with that.


	3. Pieces: Jetpack Guy's Tale

**Pieces - Jetpack Guy's Tale**

* * *

Even after swapping his lab coat for evening attire, Gary felt out-of-place. It was Friday night and the Night Club was hopping. Throngs of penguins bobbed and grooved to the beat in the confined space, bumping and grinding against each other in a way that made the Gadget Guy distinctly uncomfortable. He hunched his shoulders and braved his way across the brightly flashing dance floor, meekly squeezing his way between dancing penguins.

He paused at a darkened alcove shrouded by a thick velvet curtain and briefly exchanged words with the bouncer there, a red penguin in dark glasses and a smart-looking suit. After producing dinner reservations, he was allowed entry to the small stairwell leading up to the second floor lounge. The difference was night and day above the dim, smoky noise of the dance floor. The lounge was tastefully decorated with soft green curtains and glass furnishings.

Spotting his dinner guest across the room, Gary waved and sidled over, taking a seat across from her.

"Sorry I'm late," he offered breathlessly, fiddling with his bow tie. "Something came up at the last second."

"Don't sweat it," Aunt Arctic deferred, emerging from behind her menu. "I hope you don't mind that I've already ordered."

"Not at all, Director," Gary said with a deferential nod. "Hm, I'm not quite accustomed to calling you by your title yet."

"It'll come with practice." She gestured to the spread before them. "Help yourself."

An elegant platter of appetizers lay appealingly on the table, and Gary scrutinized it eagerly, noting with some disappointment that most of the best tidbits had already been picked over. He shrugged and took a handful of morsels, munching contentedly as he sat back in his chair.

"Ah, shrimp!" he sighed happily. "Delicious."

"Glad you like them," the Director said coyly. "Your bill or mine?"

Gary chewed to a halt, eyeing the platter of crunchy snacks thoughtfully. Thrift lost the battle. He grabbed another handful.

"You look simply stunning tonight, Director," he said, changing tack.

The green penguin blushed, a tinge of red staining her freckled cheeks.

"Thank you, Gary," she laughed, idly touching the sheer emerald fabric of her form-fitting gown. "But don't think your flattery will get the better of me. How badly are we doing?"

Gary sighed darkly and hoisted his attache case onto the table.

"Do you want the same story I gave the committee or the honest assessment?"

"Honesty is always the best policy, Gary," she chided.

"Well, to be honest, we're doing okay. Not great, but things are going according to plan. All of the policy is in place and I think I may have found us a base of operations."

He unfurled a set of blueprints on the table, pushing the cocktail platter out of the way. "This is the new Sports Shop. They have a spare room for rent that we could use as a temporary headquarters while we look for a more permanent structure of our own."

Aunt Arctic leaned in the study the diagram, her brow furrowing in thought as she pointed out a potential area of contention.

"Is that the only door?" she asked. "It's right in the middle of the store. We're supposed to be a _secret _agency. We can't be having penguins wandering into our HQ all the time looking for the toilet."

"I've thought of that," Gary assured her. "We can block it up, or maybe even disguise it."

"What about a dressing room?" Aunt Arctic suggested. "Maybe give it a false back and a two-way mirror so we can see anyone approaching."

"I can do that," Gary nodded. "A hidden door in the dressing room, sure! I like it. Kind of gives off an old-school secret-agent vibe."

The director nodded.

"Great, I approve. On to the next order of business. How many agents do we have lined up?"

Gary loosened his collar and took a sudden interest in the blueprint.

"Well, uh, there's you and me, maybe one or two others..." He shrugged dismally. "There's just not much interest. We can't really afford to pay anyone right now."

Aunt Arctic rested her chin on one flipper.

"I know, Gary. We're on a tight budget. The committee isn't even sure we need an agency right now. We'll just have to make do with what we have."

"Of course we need an agency!" Gary insisted. "The ski patrol is overworked and the Pizza Parlor gets robbed every other day, sometimes by its own staff! There's got to be someone out there to keep things from getting out of hand."

Aunt Arctic stirred her drink listlessly.

"I _know, _Gary. I agree completely. But we have to listen to the public, and they don't want cops here on Club Penguin. This is a resort island. We don't want to send the wrong kind of message."

"We're not going to be cops, Director. We're just here to make sure everyone has a good time. With luck, nobody will ever know we exist."

"You're going to need some good penguins to pull that off," Aunt Arctic pointed out.

"Exactly," Gary mused. "And to get good penguins, I'm going to need some kind of budget to attract them."

"Be resourceful, G."

"I _am_ resourceful," Gary smiled wearily. "And remarkable, and ready. Now I just need to find some agents who are too."

Their attention was drawn to a corner where a group of young penguins was growing rowdy. Apparently, the astro-barrier machine had eaten someone's coins, and he had determined that the best way to get them back was to abuse the machine until it offered a refund. Heads turned to look, and Gary sighed dejectedly.

"See? This is why the island needs us. There's nobody around to stop this kind of thing."

Aunt Arctic nodded.

"I agree. Go find us some agents!"

"I'll do some digging."

By now, wait staff had appeared and were trying to reason with the agitated penguins, but they were having none of it. They'd discovered a new game, rocking the heavy arcade machine back and forth until it threatened to topple. The more it rocked, the wilder they got until it fell with a crash. Shards of glass skittered across the floor and the penguins cheered. Gary feared that they might round on the patrons next, and signalled for the cheque, but before he could get up, a hush fell over the assembly.

The bouncer had appeared at the top of the stairs, and he looked like he meant business. The rowdy penguins grew quiet as the red penguin stalked up to the apparent instigator and casually jerked him down off the fallen arcade machine he'd been standing on, sending him reeling with a forceful shove. His friends quickly regained their composure and began to crowd in menacingly.

To his credit, the red penguin did not react, merely taking a few steps back and fixing them with a stare that was all threat and no fear. He quietly pointed to the door and his point was clear: _leave now, or deal with me._ The gathered troublemakers seemed uncertain, but the apparent leader of the group was not about to let the insult go unanswered. He stepped forward and threw a poorly-aimed punch that the bouncer deflected, though the blow put him off-balance and he nearly stumbled.

He recovered quickly, but the young penguins exploded into mocking laughter, pointing and jeering. Gary thought the well-dressed penguin might throw a punch of his own, but the red penguin lowered his shoulder instead, closing the distance with alarming speed and bringing the instigator down in a surprise tackle, spinning him around and twisting his right flipper painfully behind his back. The penguin's eyes brimmed with tears of shock and pain, and he offered no resistance as the well-dressed penguin held him immobilized and spoke softly into his ear. To Gary's surprise, the restrained penguin nodded and a moment later, the red penguin released him. Rubbing his strained flipper ruefully, the troublemaker turned and staggered down the stairs, his entire gang tromping down after him. The bouncer glanced around almost apologetically and followed after them.

"Someone like that?" Aunt Arctic asked.

"Yes, someone _exactly _like that," Gary nodded. He glanced down at the half-eaten plate. "Would you—?"

"I've got it," the editor confirmed. "Go get him!"

Gary smiled and shot from his seat, following the group downstairs and out into the parking lot. By the time he arrived, it was already over. There was a little blood on the snow, surrounded by many scuffled footprints.

He found the bouncer nearby, sitting under the glow of a street lamp and nursing a small cut on his brow. His tie was undone and his jacket was a little torn, but he didn't look much worse for the wear. He looked up at Gary's approach and forced a smile, his breath coming in short puffs on the frozen air.

"Sorry about all that," he apologized. "Go talk with the head waiter and he'll refund your meal."

Gary shook his head and flopped down next to him.

"Never mind that," he said. "Are you okay?"

The red penguin shrugged.

"I've been worse."

"I saw what happened back there. Ever seen those guys before?"

"Yeah, they're not supposed to come around anymore, but they're always getting in with different ID." He shrugged. "There's only so much we can do about it. I can't be everywhere at once. Sometimes things slip through the cracks."

Gary peered over his glasses, examining the penguin's forehead.

"You're bleeding."

"Slipped on the ice," the penguin admitted sheepishly. "They didn't really want to fight, just to look tough for their buddies. Once I showed them I meant business, they decided to cut and run."

"You showed some remarkable restraint up there," Gary acknowledged. "I'm impressed."

The penguin shrugged.

"I guess I could have come up swinging, but there was really no point. We would have wrecked the place and people would have gotten hurt. It's better this way."

Gary nodded thoughtfully.

"You know, I like your attitude. You mentioned earlier that you wished that there was someone around to pick up the pieces that slip through the cracks, didn't you?" He was paraphrasing a little, but the other penguin didn't seem to mind.

"I suppose so, yeah."

"Well, that's the business I'm in," Gary said enthusiastically. "We're forming a group of top-notch piece picker-uppers and we're looking for the right kind of penguin for the job. Would you be interested?"

He extended a brand-new business card and the red penguin eyed it cautiously.

"The PSA? Never heard of you."

Gary's eyes sparkled as he produced a bulky blue cell phone from the folds of his jacket and passed it across to the other penguin.

"We're brand new, just open for business. I'm something of an inventor and we've got the backing of the island's other agencies. You'll have all the best gear, steady employment and you'll be on the front lines keeping the island safe. The only thing we can't promise you yet is a paycheck, but that will come," he added hopefully.

The red penguin nodded.

"Okay."

"Okay? Just like that?" Gary said, surprised.

"Just like that." He shrugged. "Why not? I could use a change of scenery. To be honest, I hate this place. All the noise, the dancing. Not my style. But why me?"

Gary smiled and clapped him on the back.

"I like your attitude. You can obviously handle yourself in a fight. And, well, you look pretty good in a suit."

The red penguin snorted.

"So I've heard." He leaned over and offered Gary his flipper. "I'd be glad to join you."

"Excellent!" Gary beamed. "Welcome to the Penguin Secret Agency! I'm Gary, but I go by 'G' on the job. Code names, you know?"

The new agent nodded.

"G? Could be a problem if we're going by first letters. I'm Guy."

Gary stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"We'll work on that. Keep the phone, it's yours. Swing by the Sports Shop tomorrow and ask for Gary. We've got a lot of work to do, agent!"

The red penguin nodded soberly and took to his feet.

"I'm counting on it."


	4. Jackabo: The Miner's Tale

**Jackabo - The Miner's Tale**

* * *

Miguel had never liked the dark. It had always seemed to him an unfair advantage for whatever lay out there beyond the view of his feeble penguin eyes. He felt sure that there were slimy, blind things out there in the tunnels, slinking and sliding just out of the light.

_There. _there was something coming around the corner, dragging itself along to floor, carefully and quietly toward him. He bit his lip and held tight to the air hose.

"Okay, we're good!" the foreman called.

The lights snapped back on, restoring the cavern to life. Miguel blinked. The shadow creature evaporated before his eyes, becoming a pile of sandbags once more. He sighed and hefted his jackhammer.

A hard-hatted penguin shot him a thumbs-up from atop the scaffold and the rubber hose in his flippers went taut as compressed air surged into his hammer. Bracing himself, he leaned into the heavy drill and mashed the trigger. The feedback was instant and intense, and he fought to control the path of the wildly-bucking instrument. Sparks and stone chips rattled off his safety glasses as he chiseled out a rough chunk of ore.

Trembling from the exertion, he set the jackhammer aside and picked up the head-sized chunk of rock ore, waddling with it twenty meters to the waiting cart. He let it fall with a hollow _clang_ and rested a moment on the mine cart's lip. This was the largest chunk he'd managed yet, and the hopper was still nearly empty.

"Hey, new guy!" the foreman shouted over the din of jackhammers. "Quit looking and get cooking!"

Miguel saluted tiredly and ambled back to his drill. Before long, the cavern was filled with the echoing racket of hammer drills once again. He was not alone in his work: over a dozen other miners occupied the work floor working with drills of their own. Of them, he was the newest, only a few days into the job and still 'green', a fact that they all took the opportunity to impress upon him whenever possible.

Mining was hard, tedious work. His body ached in places that he'd never known existed. Ultimately, though, it was the monotony of the job that got to him the most. Everyone seemed to have their own way of coping. Some sang boisterously, others checked out mentally, evidenced by their glazed eyes and vacant stares. Some carried on conversation over the roar of their jackhammers, and there was one in particular that always seemed to have the others in stitches with his jokes and stories.

From his place at the far end of the shaft, he only caught occasional snatches of conversation, but he'd worked out a plan. Moving along the wall just a few feet at a time between loads, he could inch his way closer without drawing suspicion. Slowly and methodically, he made his way over until he was finally close enough to eavesdrop.

Eagerly, he stepped up to his place on the vein and set his jackhammer against it, but when he pressed the trigger, nothing happened. The penguins around him burst into laughter, and he blushed deeply as he realized that he hadn't been quite as stealthy as he'd thought.

"I think you're a little off your assigned area, new guy," one of the miners said, gently steering him by the shoulders back to his station.

Fuming, Miguel shrugged off his guide and angrily hefted his jackhammer into position. He braced himself and pulled the trigger. The Jackhammer lurched—once.

The entire cavern exploded into laughter again, and Miguel wanted disappear down an open mine shaft to hide his embarrassment. The penguin operating the air compressor was in on the joke, manually operating the air line leading to his hammer.

"Could I please have some air?" he called, trying to maintain his composure.

"Sure!" the operator laughed. A little air hissed weakly down Miguel's line.

"A little more?" he called, losing patience.

A little more air hissed down the line, not nearly enough to operate the jackhammer. Miguel growled and shouldered a pick, making his point.

"Knock yourself out! Make sure you hit your quota!" The laughter redoubled.

To his relief, the foreman appeared and set everyone working again. The rest of the shift passed uneventfully. When it ended, he was tired and sore, but not completely exhausted like he usually felt. He took it for a sign that his stamina was improving.

After a quick shower, he joined the others in the boiler room, swilling coffee and playing cards around a fold-up table. Nobody objected when he sat down to be dealt in and he hoped the day's shenanigans had been forgotten. The conversation turned mundane and he began to relax.

"How about Team Red this year?" a burly miner proposed, tossing his cards on the table. "Their defense looks pretty good."

"Sure, but the Team Blue _offense _is better than ever," another miner piped up. "So I guess it's a moot point."

"What do you think, new guy?" the large penguin asked. "Red or Blue?"

"Uh, I'm not really much for sports..." A chorus of jeers and booing filled the room and Miguel was pelted with (for the most part)empty soda cans. "Okay! Team Red! Red!" he shouted, ducking under the table.

"Team Red? What's wrong with you?" the first miner scoffed. "Why Red?"

"But I thought—" Miguel began, but quickly thought better of it. "Never mind."

"Yeah, that's the problem. Stop thinking, new guy," the miner laughed. "It don't matter. All that matters is that you show up on time and hold the jackhammer by the right end. That's all there is to mining."

"Well, there's a little more than that," the foreman said, emerging from the showers with a dirty towel around his neck.

"Yeah, it's called 'try not to die'," the miner snorted. "When you're new, there's a hundred and one ways to get yourself killed. You can get crushed, blown up, suffocated..."

"Lost," another miner piped up. "Trapped."

"Smashed or burnt," another added.

"Impaled."

"Strangled," one offered. "Saw that once."

"Okay, I get it," Miguel grimaced. "I'll try to avoid all that."

"But there's one thing you've _really _got to watch out for above everything else," the large penguin grinned.

"Bobby, don't start this," the foreman groaned.

"You've got to watch out for the Jackabo."

"The what?" Miguel asked, and immediately regretted it. Everyone else had taken on a conspiratorial look that he wasn't sure he liked. "C'mon guys," he pleaded. "Quit pulling my leg. What is it?"

"Old Jack ain't no _'it'_, new guy," the miner explained with a solemn shake of his head. "He's the real deal."

"Okay," Miguel persisted. "Who is he?"

"He's the dark, he's the mines," the miner shrugged as though that explained everything.

"The mine's name is Jackabo?" Miguel chuckled. "Okay, sure. My jackhammer's name is Betsy."

"No! 'Fer heaven's sake, kid, do you keep a brain under that thick skull of yours? Old Jackabo ain't the mines!"

"But I thought you just said..."

"Shut up and listen, new guy. The dark, the cold, the tunnels, that's the stuff he's made of. That's what he is."

"Like a ghost?" Miguel asked, chuckling. "You're not really trying to scare me with a ghost story, are you?"

"I didn't say ghost."

"You're implying it."

"Look, I'm just trying to give you some good advice. Do you want to hear it or not?" the miner said hotly.

"Fine," Miguel said, reaching for a soda. "Let's have it."

"You'd better not interrupt again," the miner huffed. "It don't matter to me if your soul gets sucked out through your eyes." He took a swig of soda and continued. "It ain't no secret that a couple of penguins have died in these mines. People don't like to talk about it, but it's true. Best I figure, their souls get all lost and confused down there in the tunnels and sorta... _diffuse. _I don't know. But along comes old Jack Abo, a real angry soul. Wouldn't take no instruction. One day he took his pick to a vein outside of the safe zone and brought the whole roof down on his head. Crews were digging around the clock for three days to get to him, but when they finally broke through, there was no body! The way they tell it, Old Jack was so angry and rotten that he refused to die, eating up those lost souls and getting fat on 'em. Took a liking to them, he did, and I reckon he's still down there, looking for more."

Miguel blinked.

"What? That was the dumbest—"

"Things get funny down there, sometimes," another miner spoke up. "Things will move around when you're not looking, and sometimes you can see headlamps down in the shafts where there ain't nobody."

"It ain't natural," another miner agreed.

"Uh, right," Miguel said, pushing back from his chair. "Well, if you'll excuse me, It's time I get going."

The foreman stood up to block his way.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Sure, what's up?"

"Listen, I hate to do this to you, but I need someone to lock up for the night, and I think you've been around long enough now to know what goes where."

"Lock up?" Miguel swallowed. "Back in the mine?" He became aware that everyone was looking at him, but trying not to show it.

"Yeah," the foreman said apologetically. "Just cover up the equipment and turn off the lights. You know the way, don't you?"

"Yeah," Miguel said, "I'll do it." _So this was their plan: tell the new guy a ghost story and send him to go lock up_. He could feel their disappointment as he stalked from the room. He was determined not to show any fear. He could hear their laughter as he left, and he smiled grimly. Maybe this would be the end of the teasing.

He paused at the entrance to the cavernous space, balling his flippers as he hesitated on the threshold. He hadn't realized just how empty the shaft would feel without any other bodies present. Every scuff of his feet echoed hollowly off the stone walls. The realization that he was going to be standing alone in a pitch-black room took him suddenly. He told himself that he hadn't really been frightened by a silly ghost story, but even so, he found himself nervously scanning the shadows as he inched into the room.

The sound of a muffled cough took him by surprise. His head snapped around and his adrenaline spiked until his eyes fell upon the source of the sound and he relaxed. Beside the scaffolding, he could see the silhouette of a penguin in a mining helmet, apparently busy rummaging through a crate somewhere above.

"Hello!" he called, searching for the shadow's owner. "Sorry to bother you. Are you about done in here? I'm locking up for the night."

"Don't mind me," the unseen penguin called. "I'm just finishing up." His voice sounded throaty and sore as though the penguin were coming down with a cold.

"I don't think we've met," Miguel mentioned, glad to have company. "Are you from B crew?"

"No," the miner said flatly. "I'm on a different shift."

"Ah, okay. Hey, could you do me a favor and get the lights when I'm done?"

The shadow seemed to shrug and went back to his task. Miguel shrugged it off and finished his work. When he returned, the shadow seemed to have moved out of sight.

"Hey!" he called. "You still up there? Can you reach the lights?" After a few moments passed without reply, Miguel dropped his helmet and took hold of the ladder. "Hello?"

Without warning, the lights snapped off, enveloping the cave in blackness. Miguel's heart skipped a beat. He froze with one foot on the ladder. "Hey! Hold on! I don't have my light!"

The darkness made no reply. It seemed thick and heavy, pressing in around him. He dropped to his hands and knees, fumbling around for his helmet. His flipper brushed hard plastic, and he lunged for it, but the helmet skittered away. He took a few tentative steps after it, but he thought better of it, groping backward toward the wall. But his outstretched hand felt nothing. He'd lost the wall, and in the darkness, he had no way to know if he was five inches from it or five yards.

The magnitude of his plight dawned on him. Disoriented in a cavern hundreds of meters across and riddled with open shafts, striking out in the dark without guidance could prove fatal.

"Hello!" he called again."Are you there?"

"I'm here," the other called, echoing strangely as though across a great distance.

"My headlamp is gone! Turn on your light!" Miguel called, peering into the darkness for any glimmer of illumination.

"There is no light," the voice came again, very close like a whisper from over his shoulder.

Miguel spun, half-expecting to see someone there, but there was only darkness.

"You don't have one either?" he called, fighting panic.

"_There is _no _light," _the voice hissed, filling the cave with whispering echoes.

"What are you talking about? _Where are you ?"_ Miguel shouted, beginning to feel truly afraid.

"_HERE," _the darkness thundered, _"WAITING FOR YOU." _The sound and the darkness seemed to press in all around him, blinding his eyes and forcing its way into his lungs. He stumbled, smothered by the cold heaviness.

"No! Please, no!" he screamed, struggling desperately, willing his frozen joints to run. He staggered, tripping over something hard and plastic.

His helmet! Fumbling, he clutched the device to his chest and keyed the headlamp. A brilliant white beam of light sent the shadows dancing, forcing the darkness back. The light seemed to him a breath of fresh oxygen, filling his lungs, driving the darkness out. He stared at the light in wonder, awed by its purity.

Slowly, he became conscious of the need to leave, to seek out the light and shake off the mine and its cold, dead spirits. He took to his feet, stumbling at first, then jogging, then sprinting, staring always ahead at the bobbing cone of light emitted from his helmet. He exploded out of the mine, almost running headfirst into the the foreman.

"Whoa! Stop! Slow down, there!" the penguin cried, worry plain on his face. "You'd better sit down, that's a nasty gash."

"Gash?" Miguel gradually became aware of something warm and sticky trailing down his face and off his beak. He gingerly touched his brow. His flipper came away bloody.

"What happened in there? Did you fall?"

"I—there was someone..." Miguel paused, confused. His memories seemed hazy. He'd been climbing the ladder, hadn't he? Then everything had gone black. When had he fallen?

"Someone in there? The foreman asked, peering past him into the mine. "You sure? The lights are still on."

"What? No, they..." he stuttered, hardly believing it himself. Sure enough, everything was as he'd left it. The lights still burned dimly, strung on ropes across the cave. "That can't be," he protested. "It was dark."

He tried to stand, but the foreman pushed him back down, frowning worriedly.

"Sit. You're not okay. I'm going to call a paramedic."

"But..."

"You've obviously hit your head. From the way you came running in here and the way you're talking, I think you've probably got a concussion."

Miguel groaned, doubling over as a wave of throbbing pain hit home. Had he fallen off the ladder? Blacked out and hallucinated the whole thing? That would explain the sudden darkness. But who had he been talking to? Just his imagination? Part of the hallucination?

"Sorry, boss," he muttered.

"Don't be," the foreman said. "It should be me apologizing. I shouldn't have sent you in there alone. Just hang on until the medic gets here."

"Okay."

But Miguel wasn't paying attention. He was looking at the shadows on the floor. There were three, and he had an extra.


End file.
